


Too Soon

by flippinsirens



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Deathfic, M/M, degenerative bone disease, first-person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-10
Updated: 2013-01-10
Packaged: 2017-11-24 08:48:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/632595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flippinsirens/pseuds/flippinsirens
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They thought it'd be the other way around. They thought they'd have more time. But turns out they don't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Too Soon

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Alone On the Water](https://archiveofourown.org/works/210785) by [Mad_Lori](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mad_Lori/pseuds/Mad_Lori). 



I stand there and look at him. But I do not hear him.

His mouth is moving rapidly and I'm trying so hard to hear what he is saying for it must be important. It always is. But my heart is beating too fast, too loud, and I can't hear past it.

My vision blurs and I fall. I fall so deep into myself that everything goes black and I wake up only to the sight of the man who is slightly at fault sitting beside me.

It isn't a regrettable sight.

He looks worse than I've ever seen him and my heart lurches to think that I am the reason for this. I should never be the reason and yet here we are.

But then I look around the room and I see that it is not the patterned walls of the flat, the colored walls of his bedroom that I remember. It is not the place that he and I have shared since we were introduced.

It is not home.

Instead, it is the disgustingly sterile white walls of a hospital. Why I am in here I do not know. But nevertheless, here is where I am and here is where he is so I can't complain too much.

However it is only then that I realize I can't move my fingers, I can't feel my toes. Perhaps that is in due partly because of the IV in my arm and the drugs I know that are pumping through my sleep addled system.

I try to speak but my voice betrays me and it comes out as a croak and a slight cough. He stirs and his eyes widen impossibly as if he hasn't seen me before. In a way, he hasn't. He hasn't seen me like this ever. But, unfortunately, I'm quite used to being in a hospital bed. Even though I really shouldn't be.

He breathes out a sigh of relief because I'm awake. I can tell that it's been a few days because his usually fine pressed dress shirt is crinkled, his coat still holds a stain from a rather annoying experiment, and his hair is messier than usual. So, at least two days. And he hasn't even gone home to change clothes.

Was I that much of a concern for him to skip bathing? Fuck, did he even eat while I've been unconscious? Probably not, the git.

"Sherlock…" I say. Well, groan out weakly, more like. I clear my throat, the action taking a lot more effort than it should have and only causing the dryness to be more of an irritant.

"Shush." He instantly demands of me. But I just level a glare at him as ineffective as I know it'll be.

He leans forward slightly and takes my numb hand in his. I can't even feel the warmth and I wonder what happened to me because, at the moment, I can't remember.

"John, I…I'm sorry for this. I know that I'm not known for being apologetic but, in this instance, I am so very deeply sorry."

I try to nod even though I'm terribly confused. It doesn't work.

He stops and I look up from our clasped hands into his eyes which are swimming with unshed tears.

But Sherlock never cries. Except for that time on Bart's rooftop but that was only once and I only heard it rather than saw it.

He hasn't done it since to my knowledge. So it's understandable why the heart monitor attached to me started beeping a bit more quickly.

If he is crying, or trying so very hard not to, something must be wrong.

Very wrong.

But, Jesus, he's beautiful like this. Worried and looking so abnormal sitting in that hospital chair, holding my hand and worrying his bottom lip without trying to make it obvious. He starts to speak again and I'm sure that whatever he is saying is really important but I just don't have the energy to hang onto every word.

"If you hadn't gotten that knife thrown at you…never would have…these idiot doctors say…isn't much they can do…found it in your ribcage…spreading…thought you were fine…it's hereditary…John?"

I'm fading fast but at the sound of my name I open my eyes as quickly as I can, which isn't nearly fast enough. "I'm here," I try to say but I can't get air to pass through my vocal cords.

"Home….we can undergo operations and medicines…won't go away….at this rate…probably six months…seven at most…"

And now I understand perfectly, but it wasn't supposed to happen like this. I was supposed to get shot because I'd jump in front of a bullet to protect it from hitting Sherlock, or I was supposed to follow him off the next roof, or some freak accident like getting hit by a bus was supposed to take me. Anything but this.

I should have seen this coming.

His low baritone stops and his hand squeezes mine but I can't feel it still.

The corners of my mouth twitch up into a small smile and he seems confused for a minute before leaning forward and placing his lips upon my brow.

And then the world fades to black.

Sherlock's arguing with the staff when my eyes open again and he's so amusing and terrifying when he's like this. I can't quite make out what abuse he's shouting at the poor intern due to the sound barrier of the door, but whatever it is, it's enough to bring tears to the young man's eyes.

I manage to chuckle and I find that my voice is working though still a bit rough from the lack of use in the last few days.

The door opens just then and Sherlock apparently hasn't noticed that I'm awake yet as he simply makes his way over slowly to his chair after closing the door. I lift my hand a little and clear my throat, which helps a bit to make my voice work. He notices and instantly moves closer to my hospital bed. "John!" he whispers excitedly, almost as if he's afraid of hurting my eardrums.

I grin. My insides flutter at seeing him and knowing that I'll stay awake enough this time. "Sherlock, you git," I croak out and it comes out clearer than I thought it would but not clear enough.

His chuckle is weak and slightly manic, relieved. "What do you remember from earlier?" he asks after a long pause.

Was it only earlier that he told me I was dying? I look at the clock above his head and it reads eleven o'clock. The lack of sunlight from the window suggests that the sun has already set.

Brilliant deduction, John Watson.

"Bits here and there. But I know what's going on." I say slowly. It takes a lot more effort to speak than it should.

I try to sit up but when I do a shock of pain erupts just below my ribcage. Bloody hell, forgot that bastard in the park threw a knife at me. Sherlock tensed in his chair, his hands hovering over my body like he wants to help, he just doesn't know how or what to do. "M'fine," I breathe in and out slowly.

"You're the exact opposite of 'fine', John", he says definitively.

Ah, yes, the disease.

My mind quickly runs through options.

I could go through operations, though that wouldn't be advised because it's not that effective in helping reverse the loss of bone. I could go through treatments and take pills, hope that they work to subside it, keep it dormant, something. I could waste my time being sick due to those same pills and put myself and Sherlock in debt. I could die faster that way.

Or I could just let nature take its course, do what I can for however long I can and hope it won't be painful.

But I already know it's going to be painful. It always is.

I've seen both my father and sister go through this. Father passed when I was 19 and my mother is still wrung up about it. Harry never told me until it was too late and I had watched the worst of it, trying to comfort her when she realized the pills were useless. Father didn't do that. He didn't want the treatments and the pills and, as a result, my mother's still angry with him. Harry did, though. She fought. She put up a glorious fight but she lost about two years ago.

And now it's onto me.

Now, I have to decide which course to take.

But I can't, knowing that either one could possibly destroy me, destroy Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson and Sarah and Molly and Lestrade and Mike and Mother—who would have lost everyone—and anybody else. But mainly Sherlock. I worry for Sherlock more than Mycroft does.

How can I make a decision such as this when I know Sherlock needs me?

I've been quiet too long because Sherlock's eyes are darting about my face and he's starting to fidget restlessly in his seat.

It takes me a moment to speak. "Sherlock, how long without treatment?"

He seems to understand what I'm asking of him because his eyes grow wider and he swallows. He was expecting me to fight back. It would have been an understandable expectation of me because I'm a soldier but I've fought for so much for so long that fighting for this would just end me sooner.

"Four months," he states, breaking eye contact with me for the first time.

I nod my head slowly.

I can handle four months.

"I want to go home, Sherlock."

He stands and walks outside to grab someone who can help. A few short moments pass and he enters with who I am assuming is my personal doctor and his assistant. His badge reads "Mason". His assistant is the same one Sherlock shouted abuse at not even ten minutes ago. I can't see his name, however. But I imagine he looks like a Stan.

"Vitals are looking relatively good. Breathing pattern is slightly abnormal but that's what's expected when you have a fractured rib." Doctor Mason states, looking between the monitors attached to me and my charts.

"Mr. Holmes has informed that you wish to be discharged."

"Yes." I say as I slowly push myself up into a sitting position, Sherlock's hands are instantly on my forearm and lower back to help me. I'm grateful, but I don't need it yet.

"Do you want to talk about treatment? I'm assuming that you've already been informed about your condition."

"Yes, yes, but no. I don't want treatment. I don't want pills." I stated firmly, leaving no room for discussion. Doctor Mason looks at me a moment, only a brief moment, before nodding his understanding.

"Yes, of course, Mr.—"

"Doctor", Sherlock interrupts, as if my title really makes a difference in anything.

"Er, Doctor Watson. Do you at least want a prescription for pain relievers?"

"So that I can get addicted to them and eventually they'll stop working so I'll have to up the dosage every few weeks? No, I'm quite all right." I explain in one breath. Which may not have been so wise of me as I am now experiencing difficulty getting a full breath back.

I see Sherlock looking at me with pained and concerned eyes and I can't help myself when I reach out to grab his hand. He eagerly grips it back but gently. This angers me.

I wish could say I can't imagine how hard it must be for him. But I can and that's the terrifying part so I don't let my anger show.

The doctor hesitates for a moment before placing the charts back onto the end of the bed, hooking it onto the bar. "You can leave once I've discharged you. Hopefully it won't be too long. We'll get someone in here with a wheelchair—"

"Oh, god, no. I'm still capable of walking! I'm not invalided yet!" I bark out bitterly, my free hand clenching into a tight fist. It hurts and unfortunately I know that it isn't because the nails are biting into my skin.

I can feel Sherlock smirking at me; he's pleased with my retort and proud of me, I think.

But I know he won't be smirking like that in a few weeks when it takes me twice as long to get ready in the morning and when I have to hold my tea cup with two hands instead of one. That thought alone makes me heart plunge into my stomach.

How will he react? Will he still see me as his capable ex-army doctor John Watson? Or will he burn and crash with me?

Maybe I should just let the doctor euthanize me right now. It's illegal, but I'm sure I could convince to turn his back while I inject it myself. Maybe I should just find another cabbie with pills and take both. Would the good pill counteract with the bad pill and nothing would actually happen? Can Sherlock see these thoughts pass over my face?

"Stop. Don't even think about it. In fact, stop thinking, John." Apparently he can. And why wouldn't he be able to?

"…Sherlock, have you ever watched someone die like this?" I ask, turning my head to look at him as he sits back down in his chair, his hand moving from my lower back to the top of my knee. "It takes a lot out of someone and it asks a lot of someone. I can't ask you to sit there and watch me go through this. It isn't fair to you. Especially when we both know the outcome."

"You are so absurd sometimes, John. If you honestly think I'm going to let you go through this alone, you are so sadly mistaken."

"Sherlock-!"

"It isn't fair to me for you to deny me the time we still have together." I hadn't really expected him to say something like that, he isn't one for pointless sentiment, especially in conversation.

I sigh in defeat. I'm not going to win and there's no point in arguing with him when he's likes this.

"…Fine, fine." I say at last just to confirm what we both know would have been my decision in the end anyway.

And then the silence that follows only lasts for about five minutes before I yawn and the sour taste of morning breath finally hits my taste buds. "That's disgusting…" I mumble.

"Your toothbrush and other hygienic necessities, along with a change of clothes, are in the adhering washroom."

"Thank you," I reply gratefully. So he had gone to the flat then. Or he might have had Lestrade come by to drop all of it off.

It takes effort and a lot of energy to swing my legs over the edge of the bed, stand, and make my way over to the loo. But, Sherlock is there at my side with a supporting hand on my lower back and a comforting one on my shoulder. "Yeah," I whisper but I shrug him off anyway.

I can do this.

For now, I can do this.

After I brush my teeth and get dressed alone in the washroom—it's been nearly thirty minutes—I open the door to Sherlock texting on his mobile. Must be Lestrade. I walk over to him, feeling a lot better and energized now than before, and lower myself in his lap because I don't want to sit on the bed.

Sherlock wraps his arms around me instantaneously. He still smells like his usual self even though I know he hasn't showered yet: spice, vanilla, a hint of that smell that slings to clothing after drycleanings and washings. Sherlock. He smells like Sherlock. I sniff at his neck for a few seconds, wondering how long I'll be able to do this before I won't be able to anymore, before I place a kiss to his steady pulse. I hum and sigh contentedly.

"John…" Sherlock says and pulls me closer. I'm so glad that the heart monitor isn't attached to me anymore—Doctor Mason had gotten rid of all that just before he left while I was deep in thought, apparently, because I hadn't noticed it—because it'd only be too obvious but then again, this is Sherlock and he can probably already tell I'm starting to get excited. I just hope he doesn't stop.

I smile against his neck and lift my head only a fraction so that I can press my lips to his jaw. I can feel him let out a long breath. Then I'm moving to straddle his lap and he lets me do it. It's a little difficult due to the small size of the chair but I manage and I wrap my arms around his neck, pressing myself against him, his warmth seeping into my skin and bones. I indulge because who knows how long I have. He seems to understand this easily enough even though it's way too soon to be thinking like this.

"John…" he says again through a whisper and he takes his hands—so large and bony and so capable of so much—and places them on either side of my face. I lean in a little bit until our lips meet and it's so warm and so soft and he tastes so much the same. It's a chaste press of lips but I love it just as much as the nights we spend ravishing each other, bruising and marking and taking without preamble. I will miss it in a few weeks. But then again, I'll be dead not long after that so I won't be able to miss it any longer.

I try to deepen the kiss but he pulls back. I want to ask him why but my voice catches just as the doctor comes back in and I imagine he blinks at seeing me on Sherlock's lap. My cheeks are flushed and I feel them heating rapidly.

"Everything's clear, Doctor Watson," he states, clearing his throat. "You can go home within the hour," he clarified as he turned to leave.

I nod, looking over my shoulder, "Thank you."

He leaves, the soft click of the door sounding behind me. But at the moment I'm more concerned with how Sherlock has slipped his fingers underneath my jumper and how they're rubbing small circles into my skin. Chilled yet warm. I shiver with anticipation even though it probably will not go anywhere—fractured rib—but then Sherlock has his tongue working a line from my collarbone, passing over my pulse and going to my ear.

"Sherlock," I whisper into his neck, my body arching into him. "Really? Here?"

"Why not?" he replies in his low voice that always sends a pleasurable shudder through my spine.

"People could walk in?"

"So let them walk in," he presses his hands into my back gently, pressing me against him more fully and it makes my blood run south with how he urges me to give in.

I don't resist it after that and luckily no one walked in and there was a towel nearby.

I leave hospital within the hour.

* * *

It's only been two weeks since I left the hospital and it's already hard to get out of bed in the mornings. Granted, it's always been a little difficult to get out of bed. I'm not as young as I used to be. Apparently, though, I haven't noticed how increasingly difficult it is move around, even before the hospital visit, because it shouldn't be progressing this fast. I don't think it did it for Father or for Harry but then, I'm not either of them, so it could be different.

I try not to wake Sherlock as I get out of bed—we'd just gotten off a three day case and he hasn't slept yet so I really don't want to wake him prematurely—and make my way to the bathroom. I flick on the light and blink to clear my vision as it gets used to the sudden brightness. I leave it open only an inch as I shimmy out of my pants and turn on the shower, waiting for the water to heat up to a moderate temperature before I step inside. Gripping the edges of the sink until my knuckles are white, I try to hold back a cough. If I get sick now it won't end well and it'll just speed everything up. I'll take medicine later.

I can feel the steam circulate within the bathroom and I finally step inside, feeling the warmth of the water slosh over my tired and sore muscles, my aching bones. I rest my forehead against the wall and breathe softly through my nose, taking in lung fulls of steamy air. It's only been two weeks out of the sixteen I was promised and this disease is already taking a toll on my finer bones in my hands and feet—my hands are a bit worse than my feet because at least I can still stand for a good two hours before I feel the need to sit down. But, as I predicted, I can't hold a tea cup in one hand and gripping things has become harder though not unbearable.

I can still shoot my gun and wash myself and brush my teeth and make tea and cook dinner on occasion.

I can still run my fingers through Sherlock's hair.

The water helps to soothe my thoughts and muscles and that's when I start moving to pick up the shampoo. But then, Sherlock is there, throwing open the curtain and stepping in behind me, making me jump about a foot in the air because I wasn't expecting him.

"Jesus Christ, Sherlock! You could have warned me!" I bark at him even if there isn't any real venom in my voice as I turn to face him.

"You wouldn't have expected the sound of my voice either so it doesn't matter." He replied easily. The water's spray hasn't touched his hair yet so odd bits of it are still sticking up in all directions imaginable and, he'd hate me for saying this out loud, he's just too adorable like that.

He reminds me of a very sleepy five year old like this. He leans forward just a bit and wraps me in his long, pale arms, nuzzling my neck.

"No, no," I resist, placing my hands on his forearms and pushing a little. "I need to wash my hair and then I need to go to work. None of this funny stuff." I finish with a chuckle and an easy smile. It's so easy to smile around him even if I know my hands will be sore by noon.

"What better way to start the morning than with something to put you in a good mood?" Sherlock asks rhetorically as he brushes his nose along my neck, the water sloshing over him as he moves us under the spray.

That's about all the convincing I need before I hum my consent and Sherlock is going to his knees, mouthing along my skin in that special way he does, making me melt under his ministrations, my cock already half-hard by the time he's done with my collarbone. His hands travel along my skin, the warmth of him and the water mixing so incredibly well together. He grips the back of my thighs with just enough eagerness and gentleness, an equilibrium of both that he knows I can't resist and that, at the moment, I have no intention of doing so.

He nips the skin just above my groin and my hips want to buck into him but he holds me place.

After that my mind short-circuits and I can't really focus on what he's doing except that it should all be very illegal.

* * *

It's Halloween, one month, three weeks since I got out hospital, and I'm missing four of my teeth—the lateral incisor on the right, upper portion; both of my left molars; and the right, bottom canine.

I thought it would be difficult to talk with them missing. But, after some getting used to, it isn't much different. Sure, some words come out a bit abnormal but I can't help everything.

Sherlock managed to be convinced by myself and Mrs. Hudson that he should put on a costume and give out candy to the little kids that come by. He, unfortunately, didn't have a choice in the costume and fought me on it every step of the way.

But, in the end he gave in and is now pouting in his armchair, watching me through a glare, in his Woody outfit from Toy Story. I chuckle every time I make eye contact with him. When he first put it on I was so close to collapsing due to excessive laughter but it was just too precious.

Too bad I can't get him to say that there's a snake in his boot.

I sip my tea carefully because it's still a little hot. I've gotten so used to holding it with both hands by this point that I don't notice how hard I have to grip it to keep it steady. But if the look on Sherlock's face is anything to go by, it's harder than I think I'm holding it.

Of course he'd look at me like that.

He doesn't want this just as much as I do but I've made my peace with it. We can't stop it and we both know I'd go before him.

The bell rings and Sherlock huffs out an exaggerated breath as he rises from his armchair, picks up the bucket of candy, and makes his way down the stairs.

I chuckle lightly and then sip my tea again, finishing it, listening to the chorus of small children calling out 'trick or treat'. Sliding to the end of my chair, I slowly stand. The bones in my feet and my kneecaps are wearing down faster than the others. My fingers are going, too. It hurts at first but I take a few steps and it subsides. There isn't any more tea in the kettle and I'm too tired to make more but I don't want to ask Sherlock.

Because I can do it.

I could do it if I weren't so tired, at least. I haven't been sleeping well these last few nights but that's attributed to the fact that I've been up with Sherlock, reviewing a few cold cases that have somehow become involved in a much bigger crime scheme. Still not interesting enough for Sherlock to leave the flat. But interesting enough to allow Sherlock to immerse himself.

In the next moment, I feel arms wrap around my waist and Sherlock's chin rest on the juncture where my neck meets my shoulder. I lean into him and sigh as I place my hands over his arms.

"It's late," his voice rumbles into my ear. "We should get to bed."

"I never thought I'd hear you say those words, Sherlock. Usually you're rattling off about how sleep is just transport."

"Yes, well, I just solved the case and you're tired."

I follow him up to our bedroom.

* * *

It's nearing the end of November in a few days.

It's been three months.

I can't hold my cup of tea anymore, even with both hands.

I resigned from the clinic a while back so I don't have to worry about running about all day, wearing away what bones are still strong enough to hold me up.

Cases that Sherlock and I would have jumped to take are no longer an option because I can't do it anymore. Sherlock has even taken to not leaving the flat now. He's constantly watching over me. A part of me wants to scream at him for not taking cases. A part of me wants to just sit in his lap and wrap my arms around him.

There's only a month to go at the outside.

But I've already started to think that I should just give up now.

I can't really eat anything with most of my teeth missing; the only bad thing about this disease is that the teeth always go first.

It's gotten so hard to breathe because my ribs have softened. The fractured rib I got three months ago never really healed properly and that one was the first to cause me problems.

I can't sleep on my stomach or my sides or my back.

Sherlock's usually comforting arm around me now just ends with me gritting my teeth and trying to fight off the slight wave of pain because of the pressure it has on my ribs. But it's Sherlock, and he figured it out, and he stopped holding me close to him. I miss it terribly.

We've taken to staying in the living room. When we go to bed I only have to walk a short distance—which is nice because I don't think the bones in my lower half could take much more than a few meters at a time anyway—to the couch where Sherlock will angle himself in the corner and then I will lay down with my head on his lap, curled up a little and facing the back of the sofa because I can handle my shoulder protesting the position a lot better than my back protesting.

Surprisingly, being curled up takes some of the ache away.

We don't talk much. Sherlock wasn't really one for conversation to begin with unless something caught his attention or he was insulting people on the telly. I can't talk. Well, I can, but it's painful. My jaw has weakened too much and I can't hold conversations like I used to.

It would also be easier to talk if I wasn't missing all but six teeth.

* * *

I ache all over. It's never ending and it's getting worse. Pain killers aren't an option because I know what it does and I know what I'll do and I won't do it.

We hadn't really talked about it. But when Lestrade comes by with a file for Sherlock and goes to squeeze my shoulder in what I suspect to be a comforting gesture only to pull it back because he realized it would have been a bit not good, we do. Or rather, he talks and I nod or shake my head and mumble my input.

That's when he decides to stop taking cases until this is over.

* * *

It's Decemeber 9th and I'm trying to hold back tears as Sherlock sits in front of me with his legs crossed on the floor, barely grazing my thigh and knee with his fingers. The pain I feel in my bones and joints is nothing to what he must feel knowing that I probably won't make to the New Year, or even Christmas.

If it's anything like mine, it's unbearable.

He's cleverly slipped himself into my life to the point where I can't remember a day he wasn't there. Even when he was gone for three years, he was still there and I never stopped thinking about him. I know that there was school and Uni and the war but those images and memories aren't coming back to me, haven't in a while.

It's like he is my life. Without him, I might as well die. I suppose the only reason I didn't off myself after the whole Moriarty fiasco is because, well, I had always sensed that he was still out there. Somehow. I know that sounds outrageous, but it's the only thing that makes sense.

Because now I can't imagine a world without him in it. Hell itself would have to drag Sherlock to its depths and, knowing Sherlock, he wouldn't make it easy. He'd slip away time after time again and insult Hell until it cowered back and gave up.

The thought of seeing Sherlock really die twists my stomach and makes me nauseous, and it's at this point that the tears roll down my cheeks.

His thumbs sweep gently across my skin to collect the moisture found there but this only causes more to fall in quick succession.

So, although I can imagine what it must be like for him, I can't really know because I don't know what's going on in his head—I've never been able to know unless he tells me. I don't want him to suffer after I've gone but he's already suffering. He'll miss me, I'm sure of that, and a part of me doesn't want to know what will become of him when this is over.

I'm afraid the knowledge would just kill me again.

* * *

We have a code. One blink is 'yes' or at least some sort of agreement; two blinks is 'no'; and three is something along the lines of 'you git, stop talking so fast and explain it in English'.

Because all my teeth are missing and my jaw has too many fractures in it from the weakened bone.

So when he says that he knows I'm the type of man to want to have final goodbyes, I simply blink once.

When he says that the goodbyes have to happen within the next three days, I blink once because we both know I won't make it to the end of the week.

When he says that he wants the last day to be ours, just ours, I smile and blink once.

But when he asks me if I want to go out another way instead of waiting for my last breath, I take a moment to consider it. In the end I blink twice, though this is subject to change.

I'm resting on the couch and it's difficult to breathe.

The pain is intense but I'm too weak and too fragile to do anything about it. There aren't tears left to shed and crying would only make my lungs and ribs hurt more than they already are. I want to kick and scream because of it, but I'm trapped below the surface of pain in an impossible vice.

I imagine it's quite like drowning.

All that water pushing you down, dragging you to the bottom in a tumultuous storm while you're struggling to breath, to get to the surface. The farther down you go, the calmer the water seems because you can't see the waves crashing and rolling on the surface so a part of you wants to stay down. If you stay down, you don't have to deal with those white waters. But you're losing air. You can feel your eyes burn and your lungs collapse because you can't breathe. You need to breathe. You need to get to the surface. So you try. You try so very very hard but you just can't do it. Eventually you give up because you know it's too late. You stop resisting and your eyes close and you let the water take you down.

The pain I feel is exactly like drowning only it's not all physical.

* * *

Mike and Molly are the first to come see me. They sit there in shock for a moment and think that I can't see their faces through my half-lidded eyes. But they're wrong.

Sherlock is sitting next to me, allowing me to lean against him as I sit up in their presence. I can at least do that for a short while yet. Hopefully they don't stay too long, though. I feel wretched for thinking that but, well, there it is.

I haven't seen Molly in about as long as this has been going on. Mike's been about six months. There was that one night we went out for a pint and he's called a few times but I was always too busy with Sherlock to really go out with him before that one case had happened that had landed me in hospital.

I never even got it on the site. It's still a draft, titled "Running through the Park", just catching dust on the hard drive of my laptop. But I guess that doesn't matter now.

Still, Molly sits on the floor behind the coffee table, resting her elbows on the wooden surface while Mike sits in a chair pulled in from the kitchen. Sherlock refuses to let anyone sit in my armchair. He tried to explain it one day but I didn't quite understand. That also might be due to the fact that I fell asleep in the middle of it.

I smile as wide as I can when Molly tells me all about how she's met someone new and how she can get Sherlock some kidneys to experiment on.

"Kidneys are boring, Molly," he says with a small wave of his hand.

Ah, of course he'd say that.

She's used to these types of comments so she doesn't pay any mind to it and I'm grateful because there's only so much awkward I can take.

Molly rambles a bit more about her date next Friday night and then it's Mike's turn. He doesn't really say anything worthwhile but he does talk about his interns and how they are all arrogant arses. I want to chuckle. But I can't manage it.

I drift off a little and I miss most of what Mike has said but that's okay, I suppose, because I don't have the energy or the time to feel guilty about it. When I blink open my eyes, Sherlock isn't beside me anymore and he's carefully leaned me against the back of the sofa, the union jack pillow behind my head to support my neck. And while I'm glad that he's so thoughtful, I'm afraid that at this point it hardly matters anymore.

Voices sound from the kitchen and I pick up only a little bit here and there. Mostly its Molly's voice, after all, higher pitched frequencies travel faster than lower ones.

"Does he know? I think you should tell him. Not that I'm telling you what to do, I'm just suggesting that you tell him how much he means to you because I can see it but I don't think he can. I mean, of course he can see that you care because it's obvious. Not that you're obvious. I just mean…just tell him before it's too late. He isn't the consulting detective."

It's silent for a while and then the front door closes.

* * *

Mrs. Hudson visits later that night. She brings up some biscuits and tea and sits with us as we watch crap telly. It's quiet for a long while but I don't think any of us want to break it. I see her turn to look at me and then she rises from the couch, taking the tray of biscuits with her to the kitchen. I hear her sniffle and blow her nose.

Sherlock rubs his thumb soothingly against my shoulder because he knows I can still hear her and that, if I could, I'd go to her and wrap her in a hug.

But I settle for this and hope that she doesn't cry all night. She's known about this for a while so she's had time to prepare but it still takes a lot out of someone. It isn't every day that someone you care about dies. And I know that if she were in my place I wouldn't be able to sleep or eat for days.

Mrs. Hudson comes back in, her eyes red-rimmed and teary but she's holding her own. We don't talk for the rest of the night as she takes my right hand in both of hers and we continue watching crap telly. When I fall asleep later, she'll tidy up, talk a bit with Sherlock after he's gently laid me down in a more comfortable position on the couch, and leave a little after that. When I fall asleep later, I know Sherlock will sit on the floor and lean his head against the cushion of the couch near my own and he won't dare fall asleep.

* * *

Lestrade comes by the next day and he looks as if he hasn't slept in about a week. Probably hasn't what with Sherlock refusing to help him on a case that he can't figure out, not that I overheard that phone conversation or anything.

He comes in and stands in the middle of the room while I try to smile but I'm still tired. I lay there instead with my head in Sherlock's lap rather than sitting up like I have done.

I'm so tired and I barely respond when he starts talking. I don't even know what he's saying but Sherlock is putting in his input every so often without insulting the poor bloke. They make small talk and then Lestrade asks me something about my will.

I don't have any family except mother to give things to and I don't have much to give. I blink twice.

He seems to accept this after a moment caught between wanting to press for an elaboration from Sherlock and wanting my answer to change.

But it won't.

He leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees. "John, look, I know…actually I don't know what this must be like. But, as a friend who hates seeing you like this, please consider going about this another way. I know it's illegal but I can cover it." He stops then and glances toward Sherlock before angling his head away from both of us. "I've known you too long to just let you sit there and wait and wonder when your last breath is going to be." Our eyes meet again and he continues, "You deserve a smooth ride, John. So, please just…think about it?"

I blink once.

What that doesn't communicate is that I don't plan on following through with his suggestion.

He's a good man. Lestrade is probably one of the greatest and kindest men I have ever known. He was there for me when Sherlock fell and he stopped me from going off the deep end. If I had the energy to miss my life, I would miss him more than the others. But all my energy is being poured into staying with Sherlock for as long as I can because I will miss him more than anything if I'm aware after I die.

Two hours later Lestrade leaves and I'm exhausted.

I try to shift so that my head is against Sherlock's chest but it's difficult and I barely manage it even with Sherlock's help. He tells me to hold on and slides down the couch, one leg propped unto the cushions while the other foot rests against the floor, until he's lying horizontally so that I'm wedged between him and the back cushions of the sofa. With how much weight I've lost these last few months there is still plenty of room for me to be comfortable in without having to worry. My head is resting comfortably just to the side of his chin and on his collarbone, my ear pressed to his skin. I hear his heart beating so steady

It reminds me that soon mine won't be.

I rest my hand beneath his shirt after it takes me about ten minutes to get it there. His skin is slightly chilled but still giving off more warmth than my own and I revel in it. This may be my last chance to do this.

I feel him speak before I hear him.

"John, your mother is calling me rather insistently." He says as he fishes out his phone from his left trouser pocket.

From our position, he can't see me blink, but I hope he knows that I don't want him to answer. I don't want her to know that I'm dying and I won't see her in roughly forty-eight hours for Christmas breakfast. She's aware that this disease has been eating away at me. There wasn't any way that I couldn't tell her but that doesn't mean that she has to be aware that her only family left isn't going to live for much longer.

Finally, Sherlock ignores the call and turns off his mobile, tossing it onto the coffee table.

The arm that's around my shoulders lays its hand gently on my forearm, just above my elbow, while he brushes the thumb of his right hand along my cheek.

I breathe him in slowly. He smells like spice and vanilla and that smell that clings to fabric after they've been dry cleaned.

Silence permeates the room.

I doze off a little. At first I do not notice that he's talking but I feel his voice vibrate through his chest and his fingers brush up and down my arm.

It feels nice for the moment.

I breathe him in, straining to wake up enough to hear what he's telling me. Sherlock doesn't waste his breath so it's important. I know it is.

He takes in a breath and then he's speaking again. "I'm hadn't planned on saying something that's ridiculously sentimental, John. It would have been pointless and I was afraid I couldn't have brought myself to do it. But I will say that this isn't how I imagined it'd be. In fact, I had predicted that I'd go before you. I'm reckless, restless, manic most of the time. I don't know how you put up with me, honestly, but you do. But, yes, I had planned on leaving this world long before you would have. I expected it to be in about ten or so years.

"But here we are. I honestly didn't see this coming." He presses his lips to my forehead gently and the warmth spreads through my system.

"John, I can't express everything that I need to. I don't think there are enough words that could correctly portray what I need to say to you and I doubt there ever will be.

"You've always been there. Well, not literally. But for the last ten years, you've been there and even if I were to think back to the times you weren't, I'd simply place you in those memories. I have rooms upon rooms filled with you, John. Everything about you. All those little details are filed away in my mind palace. Did you know that I had to build an entirely new wing so that I could fit everything?

"I don't think I ever told you that. It would have been…too intimate for me to reveal such a thing. But I should have told you sooner, I realize. I don't want you think that I regret not telling you. And I don't want you to think that I'm looking back on everything and wishing that I could change a few things because I wouldn't want to change anything, really."

He breathes quietly for a few moments before he continues and I breathe him in, sinking into his warmth and absorbing his words.

"What I'm trying and failing at saying is that I'm not sure how I can go on without you. I realize that's terribly sentimental and cliché to say but it's the truth. When I was taking apart Moriarty's web, I only functioned properly because I knew one day I'd see you again. But this is different because I won't see you again after you've left me.

"If you think I'm going to commit suicide, rest assured that isn't the case. I know you'd hate me for doing it and if you could, you'd beat me right now for even thinking it. But I won't lie to you. I have thought about it, John, and the idea was rather tempting.

"But you'd want me to go on. I know you would."

At this, I shift closer to him even though I can't really move and he just continues stroking my arm.

"John," he says after a moment of silence, "this is the hardest thing I have ever done, saying goodbye like this. I've tried to prepare myself for this moment, after all, I've had four months. But, the truth is that I'm not handling this very well at all.

"I'm not good with expressing my emotions but I need to say all of this."

There's silence for approximately twenty seconds before I hear his voice again.

"You shouldn't be leaving me, John." He sucks in a breath after he chokes on my name. "Because I need you here to be here with me.

"Four months wasn't enough time. Forever would not have been enough time with you." He chokes again and I feel the first of many drops of moisture hit the top of my head.

"I don't want you to go, John. I had promised you a long time ago that I'd go wherever you went but I can't follow you this time because you don't want me to." He takes a deep breath and sniffles a little bit to clear his nose. "But I can't go on without you. You've been engrained into every aspect of my life and there's no point in living if you aren't here."

I want to wrap him in my arms and hold him tight, never let him go, tell him that everything's going to be fine. But I can't do it because I can't move and I'm already slipping. I breathe him in.

Spice. Vanilla.

"I know that…that there's no way to go back in time. And I know that this would have happened either way. But this isn't fair, John. You shouldn't be dying like this. You're so much stronger than this disease. You're John Watson, ex-army doctor, my blogger, my friend…the only one who truly loved me and whom I loved in return.

"So you can't go just yet, John. You have to stay here with me just a little bit longer. Can you do that for me? Stay a little bit longer so that I don't have to say goodbye just yet." Sherlock shudders out a harsh breath and the tears are falling into my hair without cease.

"I never…this is too much, John, but I still would have chosen to be by your side throughout all this."

He breathes again and places his left hand on top of mine under his shirt.

"Just stay until the morning, John. That's all I'm asking. I don't want to say goodbye.

I feel his lips press against my scalp and my forehead repeatedly; his hand twitches against my own as if he thought about holding it tight but realized he couldn't. There are so many things I want to say to him. I want to tell him that I love him, that I've always loved him. I want to tell him that he'll still have Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson. I want to tell him that he won't be alone after I've gone.

I want to hold him and comfort him and tell him that it'll be fine. I want to kiss him one last time and put every emotion I've ever felt into it. I want my last breath to have his name on it with the words 'I love you'.

But we can't always get what we want.

"I don't want you to go. Stay. With me, John, stay."

I breathe in the scent of spice and vanilla one last time with the knowledge that when I fall asleep I will not wake up.

**Author's Note:**

> _If you're wondering when John died, the time was 7:29 PM, on December 23rd. The disease he had is[Hypophosphatasia](http://ghr.nlm.nih.gov/condition/hypophosphatasia), if you're curious. There wasn't a lot of information on what happens to the body and organs when you have this so I did my best with what information there was. Furthermore, I do not pretend to be an expert on any disease or medical things, so if something is off, do not badger me about it; simply inform me of my mistake and I'll try to fix it as soon as I can. I hope you enjoyed reading this fic._


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